She's going the distance. She's going for speed.
Don't you love Cake? I do. (I've got a mind that can steer me to your house, and a heart that can bring you red flowers . . . ) Do you want to know what song is stuck in my brain today, though? The mail song from Blue's Clues. (Here's the mail, it never fails, it makes me wanna wag my tail . . . ) I don't know if Noggin is having some sort of Blue's Clues marathon lately or what, but it is on CONSTANTLY.
But back to the topic at hand: my friend Selena wants to know why I'm always the driver on family trips. An excellent question, mon amie. And I'll tell you. I drive because my husband is . . . not a good driver. Honestly, I don't even know if he'd argue with that statement. He's had a lot of fender-benders and we've got the insurance rates to prove it. My all-time favorite was when he rear-ended a cop car. The cop (ahem, police officer) had pulled over another driver and P temporarily forgot that the car in front of you needs to be moving before you can move. I mean, I didn't take Physics in school or anything, but . . .
A few months ago he rear-ended a pick-up truck just one block from our house. Last year he got a ticket for making a left turn in front of a large "no left turn" sign. There's always some convoluted story about how, really, when it comes right down to it, it wasn't his fault per se . . .
The other reason why I tend to be the one behind the wheel is: it's my car. When the three of us are out and about, we hop into my uber-cool minivan and I guess it just makes sense to me that I would drive my own car. Besides, I like to drive and moreover, I'm better at it. He's better at managing financial stuff, guessing famous voices on cartoons, and subduing unruly three-year-olds.
I learned to drive in the suburbs of DC. More specifically, I had to learn to navigate something called "The Mixing Bowl" interchange, located in scenic Springfield, VA. The Mixing Bowl (which has been under construction in recent years) was insane because you had about 15 seconds to decide if you needed to take 95, 395, or 495. If you picked the wrong one, you were screwed. Travelers unfamiliar with the interchange have been known to STOP AND BACK UP INTO ONCOMING TRAFFIC when they realize they've missed their exit. If you were headed south on 395 and needed to take the Springfield exit, you had to cross over something like five lanes of traffic. Good times, good times. I remember when I was first learning to drive, I had a meltdown in the mixing bowl and my dad actually rolled down his window and started giving "please let her merge" hand signals to other drivers. Talk about a trial by fire. Before long, I learned to be an aggressive driver just like everyone else in DC, and you can imagine how well that went over when I moved to the Midwest. (I've toned it down in recent years but be forewarned: if you sit in front of me at a green light for more than 8 seconds, I will call you names that would make a gangsta rapper blush. If you are a guy, I will imply that your parents were not married when you were born. And so on it goes.)
P, on the other hand, is not comfortable in congested traffic or on busy highways. I'd rather eat glass than let him drive through Chicago. My mild-mannered husband turns into some sort of rabid hell-beast. So trust me, it's best if I just take the wheel.
So there you have it. I'm a driver, I'm the winner.
But back to the topic at hand: my friend Selena wants to know why I'm always the driver on family trips. An excellent question, mon amie. And I'll tell you. I drive because my husband is . . . not a good driver. Honestly, I don't even know if he'd argue with that statement. He's had a lot of fender-benders and we've got the insurance rates to prove it. My all-time favorite was when he rear-ended a cop car. The cop (ahem, police officer) had pulled over another driver and P temporarily forgot that the car in front of you needs to be moving before you can move. I mean, I didn't take Physics in school or anything, but . . .
A few months ago he rear-ended a pick-up truck just one block from our house. Last year he got a ticket for making a left turn in front of a large "no left turn" sign. There's always some convoluted story about how, really, when it comes right down to it, it wasn't his fault per se . . .
The other reason why I tend to be the one behind the wheel is: it's my car. When the three of us are out and about, we hop into my uber-cool minivan and I guess it just makes sense to me that I would drive my own car. Besides, I like to drive and moreover, I'm better at it. He's better at managing financial stuff, guessing famous voices on cartoons, and subduing unruly three-year-olds.
I learned to drive in the suburbs of DC. More specifically, I had to learn to navigate something called "The Mixing Bowl" interchange, located in scenic Springfield, VA. The Mixing Bowl (which has been under construction in recent years) was insane because you had about 15 seconds to decide if you needed to take 95, 395, or 495. If you picked the wrong one, you were screwed. Travelers unfamiliar with the interchange have been known to STOP AND BACK UP INTO ONCOMING TRAFFIC when they realize they've missed their exit. If you were headed south on 395 and needed to take the Springfield exit, you had to cross over something like five lanes of traffic. Good times, good times. I remember when I was first learning to drive, I had a meltdown in the mixing bowl and my dad actually rolled down his window and started giving "please let her merge" hand signals to other drivers. Talk about a trial by fire. Before long, I learned to be an aggressive driver just like everyone else in DC, and you can imagine how well that went over when I moved to the Midwest. (I've toned it down in recent years but be forewarned: if you sit in front of me at a green light for more than 8 seconds, I will call you names that would make a gangsta rapper blush. If you are a guy, I will imply that your parents were not married when you were born. And so on it goes.)
P, on the other hand, is not comfortable in congested traffic or on busy highways. I'd rather eat glass than let him drive through Chicago. My mild-mannered husband turns into some sort of rabid hell-beast. So trust me, it's best if I just take the wheel.
So there you have it. I'm a driver, I'm the winner.
Comments
Oh yeah and he once hit a Bentley-for those of you that don't know cars this one cost the same amount as a house- lucky it was driven by the nicest man on the planet who took one look at our uber-cool minivan and said, " It's no problem".
Speaking of uber-cool minivans I have often been tempted to get MTV to pimp my ride. I have too many kids to haul places to get a REAL car. My one son's friend suggested we look into small buses sometime soon because their legs are all getting too long for the back seat.
Of course...he is a man.